


The Five Years of Christmas Stalking

by ibonekoen



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e20 Five Years Gone, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8684143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibonekoen/pseuds/ibonekoen
Summary: Five years worth of how Peter spent Christmas after the Manhattan explosion.





	

The first Christmas after the Manhattan explosion, Peter was alone. He'd been too shaken by the destruction he'd caused to think about celebrating the holiday. In the minutes following him going nuclear, he'd lain in the middle of the rubble that had once been Kirby Plaza, screaming in agony as his skin and bones painstakingly knit themselves back together. No one came to his aid because there was no one left alive.

By the time he'd faintly heard sirens in the distance, he was only half-healed, but he knew he couldn't let himself be found. There would be too many awkward questions about how he'd survived and what had happened, so Peter had done the only thing he could think of -- he had run. With tattered clothes and unkempt hair, it was easy to blend in at a homeless shelter, and since he didn't have his ID, his family couldn't be called. He'd refused to tell the volunteers who ran the shelter anything other than his first name, and they'd finally dropped the subject when they saw how agitated he became. He'd only stayed there a couple of days before fleeing when his hands started to glow again.

He didn't remember much of the next few days after leaving the shelter. He'd somehow gotten his hands to stop glowing and wandered around in the snow, dazed and confused. He'd decided that leaving New York was the best thing for him, but without his wallet or any money, he couldn't use conventional means of transportation.

He'd taken a page out of Claude's book and used his invisibility to sneak into some homes, stealing clothes and food, and taking a hot shower that lasted so long, he'd almost gotten caught by the owner of the apartment. At an apartment in Queens, he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as he looked around the living room and saw the plastic-covered furniture. Everything looked fairly normal, aside from the fact that the apartment didn't look very lived-in, but Peter supposed that could've been because an extremely tidy person lived there. Still, there was something almost ominous about the apartment, and Peter had quickly backed out, locking the door back and trying the apartment across the hall. From there, he managed to steal some money -- enough to cover a one-way plane ticket and have some left over for food and things. The only trouble was he didn't have a destination in mind; he just knew he needed to get out of New York.

December 25, 2006 was spent in a seedy motel room somewhere in North Dakota, with Peter curled up in bed. He hadn't even realized it was Christmas until he turned on the TV and saw that How the Grinch Stole Christmas was playing. He'd started to feel sorry for himself for spending Christmas alone. But then he thought of the explosion -- all the people he killed who wouldn't be celebrating Christmas either -- and he cried for them, praying to God for forgiveness." After all, that was what Christmas was all about, right?

****

Peter spent his second Christmas after the explosion with Niki Sanders. After he and Hiro had rescued her, along with several other evolved prisoners from the Moab Federal Penitentiary in Utah, she and Peter had stayed together. He'd been saddened to learn that she'd lost her husband and son in the Manhattan explosion. Of course, she didn't blame him, didn't even know that he had been the cause of the explosion, thanks to Nathan's public statement denouncing Sylar as the real culprit. They had started a tentative relationship -- mostly out of loneliness and just wanting human comfort -- and she had somehow managed to convince him to actually call his mother. Angela hadn't been surprised to hear from him (mostly because she'd dreamt that he was still alive), but she had sounded somewhat relieved nevertheless. She'd asked him to come home and he'd told her no; he couldn't come back to New York and face what he'd done. She'd called him cowardly; he'd calmly wished her a Merry Christmas and hung up.

****

The third Christmas after the explosion, Peter had been startled by a knock on the door of the apartment he shared with Niki, a loft above a strip club in Vegas. He'd cautiously crept over to the door, peering through the peephole, and had sucked in a startled breath when he saw Nathan standing outside in the hall. He wasn't ready to deal with his family though, not yet, so he snuck out the window in the bathroom, fading into invisibility and skulking around until Niki convinced Nathan to go away.

****

The fourth Christmas after the explosion, Peter nervously wet his lips. He was standing on the front steps of his mother's mansion, staring longingly through a window at the soft glow of the Christmas lights inside. All he had to do was ring the doorbell or knock, and he could be safely inside where it was warm instead of shivering out there in the cold. And yet, he might as well be frozen in place.

He was just getting ready to ring the doorbell when the door opened, and he went stock-still, finger poised over the doorbell. Angela was standing there in the doorway, wrapped in a fur-lined mink coat, giving him an expectant look. "Well?" she said finally, breaking the tense silence. "Aren't you coming in, Peter? It's freezing out there."

Peter's mouth worked open and closed for a few moments, and then he swallowed heavily and nodded, taking a step forward. "Merry Christmas, Mom," he croaked, his voice roughened from lack of regular use. He'd become something of a hermit, keeping to himself and barely interacting with others outside the club. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to someone other than Niki, and neither of them felt the need to speak more than a few words now and then. He stepped into the foyer of the house, breathing out a sigh of relief as the warmth enveloped him. He could hear the crackle and pop of the fireplace in the great room, and the ghost of a smile played across his lips.

Angela closed the door and then turned to face him, giving him a critical look as she cupped his face in her hands. "You're too thin, Peter," she remarked after studying him for a few moments. Her face softened as he flinched, and her eyes traveled the length of the ugly scar bisecting his face. "I thought you could heal."

Peter dragged his tongue over his lips, clearing his throat. "All except that," he said casually, shrugging his shoulders a bit. He didn't really feel like discussing it, didn't want to tell her that he'd forced himself not to heal that one spot. It served as a visual reminder to him of what he'd done, the lives he'd taken because of his lack of control.

"Pete."

He felt his back stiffen at the sound of that familiar voice from behind him, and he swallowed heavily, trying to compose himself. Out of all the people he'd left behind in his old life, he missed his brother the most. Nathan had been his idol for so long, and not talking to him at all had really taken a toll on Peter. He struggled to keep calm and not burst out sobbing right there like a little kid. "Nathan," he managed to croak, his voice strained, as he turned to face his brother. The next thing he knew, he was being crushed in Nathan's embrace, and he could hear Nathan's quiet sobs.

After his mother's insistence, he scrubbed himself clean, borrowing some of Nathan's clothes to make himself presentable. There was nothing to be done about his hair, which had grown even longer and flopped in his face more than ever, so he just slicked it back with some hair gel. Afterward, he'd been fed until he couldn't possibly eat anymore, and he thought he might burst at the seams. Angela seemed pleased to see him eat, and he hadn't realized how starved he'd been until he smelled the good food his mother's chef had prepared.

He was given his old room and fell into a dreamless sleep, waking the next morning to sunlight streaming in through the window. He yawned and stretched, then rolled onto his side, curling around his pillow. The feel of cool metal against his skin startled him from his groggy half-awake state, and he frowned as he lifted his head, peering in confusion at the watch lying innocently on his pillow. He blinked and sat up, wondering who had left it there, his fingers curling around the watchface. His blood ran cold as he saw a sickeningly familiar name above the numbers -- Sylar.

Peter immediately dropped the watch, staring at it in shock. "What the hell?" he muttered. How in the hell had a watch bearing the killer's name found it's way into Peter's bedroom? Peter swallowed heavily, getting out of bed. Sylar was dead, as far as he knew, so where had the watch come from? He was only barely aware that he was beginning to hyperventilate, his hands starting to glow from his distress, and then he jumped as he heard a sharp knock on his door.

"Jesus Christ, Pete!" Nathan hissed as he opened the door and saw Peter's hands. "Get a hold of yourself!"

Peter gulped audibly and squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating and counting backwards from 100 as he breathed in and out slowly. The glow slowly dissipated, and his shoulders sagged in relief. "Sylar's dead, right?" he mumbled, little tremors of fear racking his body.

Nathan blinked in surprise, frowning slightly. "What? Of course he is, Pete." His frown deepened as he moved forward, joining Peter on the bed. "Hey, calm down, Pete. You're shaking like a leaf." He wrapped his arms tightly around his brother. "You're safe here. Nobody's going to hurt you."

Peter melted into the hug, closing his eyes tightly and clinging to his brother. Over Peter's shoulder, Nathan could see the discarded Sylar watch, and a cruel smirk played across his face. "Everything's going to be all right, Pete," he said. "Just stick with me."

For a brief second, the illusion faded, Nathan's facial features melting away into Sylar's, and then he quickly put the illusion back in place as Peter pulled away, eying him curiously. "Nathan" just gave him a casual grin and nudged his shoulder. "C'mon, Ma made pancakes," he said, getting up from the bed.

Peter watched his brother walk away, frowning slightly. There had been a moment when Nathan had seemed to shift in Peter's embrace, his shoulders becoming broader, but it had happened in the blink of an eye and then Nathan was back to normal. Peter was almost certain that he'd just imagined it, and he shook his head, shrugging it off. The allure of pancakes was too much to resist, and his stomach rumbled as he headed downstairs.

Over the next few days, he received a few other gifts left on his pillow -- a bloodied scrap of painted canvas, a drawing of him exploding and a shard of glass with dried blood on the tip. All of it seemed to be creepy reminders of Sylar, and Peter knew that the killer wasn't as dead as everyone liked to think. Afraid that Sylar might be planning to target his family, Peter fled New York yet again.

****

The fifth Christmas after the explosion, and a month after Peter discovered that his brother was dead and Sylar had been impersonating him, Peter stood alone in the center of Kirby Plaza. He wasn't sure what had drawn him back to the site of the explosion, but he felt his throat draw closed at the sight of the memorial bearing the names of those who were killed in the explosion. He sighed heavily and bowed his head, mumbling out a quiet prayer for those who had died.

"I never took you for a religious man, Petrelli."

Peter's blood ran cold, his back stiffening at the sound of that voice, and he narrowed his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder. "Sylar," he growled through gritted teeth.

Sylar just smirked as he circled around Peter, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black peacoat. "Good to see you, Pete. You're looking a little leaner."

Peter glared at him, shaking his head. "Don't call me that, you son of a bitch."

"Oh, right, right, only Nathan got that privilege," Sylar said, laughing. "I forgot. Though technically, since I am Nathan now..." He trailed off as Peter looked like he wanted to punch him -- or worse -- and he snorted, shaking his head. "Don't. It's wasted effort, Peter, as we demonstrated in the Homeland Security building."

"What do you want?" Peter snapped, keeping his eyes narrowed, his body tense, just in case. Sure, they were evenly matched, and the healing ability Sylar had stolen from Claire made killing him difficult, but Peter would do whatever was necessary to keep Sylar from hurting anyone else.

"It's Christmas, Peter," Sylar said simply. "As much as we hate each other, nobody deserves to spend it alone." He casually shrugged his shoulders. "I figured that if warring soldiers can lay down their guns long enough to have Christmas celebrations, we could do the same."

Peter gave him a wary glance, knowing from his studies in school that Sylar was referring to the Christmas Truce of 1914 between British and German troops. "If I remember correctly, there were still some causalities during the truce," he pointed out, which prompted Sylar to roll his eyes and snort.

"Christ, Peter, I'm just trying to be friendly," the former watchmaker said with a snort. "The way I see it, you and I can heal, which means we won't age. Pretty soon, we'll be all each other has left. All your friends and family will grow old and die, and you'll be left alone. You're an empath, Peter. You can't handle being alone." He scoffed a bit, rolling his eyes. "Oh, sure, you've managed to hide these last few years, but where were you hiding? A seedy strip club in Vegas? Right in plain sight?" He smirked a little at the startled expression on Peter's face. "Oh yes, I know where you've been. Nathan did me the favor of tracking you down himself and then he paid someone to keep an eye on you, something I continued even after I took over his Presidency. Being President has some phenomenal perks."

Peter's hand erupted in red flames, scowling at the man who'd murdered his brother. "You're not exactly helping your case of goodwill and fellowship by talking about my brother," he growled.

Sylar removed his hands from his coat pockets, lifting them up in the air, palms facing Peter. "I mean you no harm, Peter," he said calmly. "Relax."

"I think you should go," Peter said quietly. "Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, whatever. Just go."

"Fair enough," Sylar said with a curt nod, lowering his hands. "There will come a time, maybe not now, maybe years from now, but there will come a time, Peter, when you'll be happy to see me on Christmas. You'll welcome the sight of a familiar face, even mine."

"Never," Peter snapped, shaking his head in grim determination as Sylar chuckled.

"You'll see," Sylar said. "Merry Christmas, Peter." He gave Peter a smug smile and then wandered off, whistling "Let It Snow."

Peter frowned deeply and then turned and walked away, his heart heavy with Sylar's prediction. While the majority of him was adamant that he would never be thrilled to see Sylar, some small part of him knew there was truth to Sylar's words. There would come a day when he would lose the last links to his old life, and what would be left except his enemy? But only time would tell.


End file.
